


Workaround

by Cynthia_Silver, orphan_account



Series: Destiel Smut [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bondage, Castiel's Tie, Dream Sex, Guilt, Hell, M/M, Smut, Torture, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-11 23:45:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3337103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cynthia_Silver/pseuds/Cynthia_Silver, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during and after season 5 episode 18, Point of No Return (the one where Cas beats up Dean in an alley).<br/>Dean gets flashbacks to his time in Hell when he is locked in the panic room.  Castiel and Dean make amends towards each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Workaround

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Coldplaying_In_The_TARDIS](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coldplaying_In_The_TARDIS/gifts).



Note: This takes place during and after season 5 episode 18, Point of No Return, or the one where Cas beats up Dean in an alley.

Dean woke up as pain jolted through his body when he was dropped roughly onto the wiry cot.  He exhaled sharply in pain only to see Castiel’s stony glare above him, unsympathetic and full of cold fury.  Before he could react or resist, Castiel had fastened two pairs of handcuffs far too tightly to secure both of Dean’s hands to the metal frame beside Dean’s head, leaving Dean exposed and still bleeding.

The heavy door slammed behind Castiel, leaving Dean alone in the panic room, helplessly and hopelessly chained to the lone cot within it.  “Cas!” Dean shouted, spit and blood flying as he twisted his neck in rage as if he could follow the angel out of the room.  Chest heaving, Dean let his head sag back down to the thin pillow beneath him.  Every breath caused him severe pain.  He was certain at least a few of his ribs were cracked or broken.  Everything on him- and in him- hurt.

Dean closed his swollen eyes and felt the emptiness inside his chest expand until he thought it would consume him.  Castiel’s and Sam’s pleas and demands and accusations echoed throughout the emptiness, creating a dull ache that Dean felt to his core.  Dean was sure his injuries needed attention.  He was sure he did not deserve that.

A sudden coughing fit jarred his wounds, causing him to gasp for air and in pain.  Dean began to choke on his own blood, gagging, hands straining at the cuffs in a futile attempt to stop the coughing; anything to stop the choking.  His vision blurred and blackened at the edges.  _I deserve this_ , he thought, _I deserve to_ -

 _“To what, Dean?” crooned Alastair into Dean’s frayed ear.  “Say it louder.  What’s the matter?  Spit it out.” Alastair laughed a slow, grating laugh as he sawed at Dean’s tongue with the rusty, serrated knife as Dean screamed and coughed up blood, creating a horrible gurgling sound within his throat.  Dean tugged at the shackles that restrained his arms above his head, trying desperately to escape the rack, to free himself, to make the pain_ stop.

_“Do you really deserve this, Dean? Haven’t you suffered enough?  It’s your choice.”  He carved as he spoke. “All you have to do is say you’ll torture souls for me, Dean,” whispered Alastair as he cut slowly, agonizingly down the inside of Dean’s throat.  Dean choked on the knife, on his screams, on the words he had to say to make it stop, make it stop…_

_Alastair pulled out the knife only to begin work on cutting out Dean’s heart, one layer of skin at a time, flaying nerves as he went.  Dean yanked at the shackles around his wrists and his screams were punctuated by coughs and gargles, the blood from his mouth leaking into the fresh wounds on his chest, causing them to burn more. “Too much heart, Dean?  Is torturing really too low for you?”_

_Thirty years and Dean had said no to everything.  He had said no to every respite offered, every door out, every chance to get Alastair to relent.  He truly and deeply believed that he deserved everything he got.  Thirty years.  Finally he couldn’t take any more punishment._

_He doesn’t remember saying yes to Alastair.  He only remembers the almost orgasmic feeling of being free of injuries for the first time in thirty years, of dealing pain instead of taking it._

_Dean tortured for almost ten years after that.  He might have corrupted a million souls or a thousand; he will never know.  All Dean remembers is the enjoyment he wrought from the mangled screams of his victims._

_And then came Castiel._

_He was bright and burnt, blinding and broken from his years spent flinging aside demons to reach Dean Winchester’s still shining soul in the depths of hell._

_Dean does not remember Castiel._

_When first the angel found Dean, Dean was laughing over the mangled soul of a child, twisting the knife; laughing._

_“Dean,” said a weak, tired voice, somehow still hopeful, from a being formed entirely of grace in this realm, yet having shape and form.  Too late._

_Dean turns as he yanks the knife loose and holds the tip gently in his bloody hands.  His eyes, once green, were now only grey rings around his inflated pupils.  Immediately he lunged forward and plunged the knife in one of Castiel’s wings, eliciting a piercing scream from the angel._

_Castiel fell to the ground in front of Dean, taking the knife embedded in his wing with him.  “Dean,” Castiel repeated, this time more forcefully despite his position.  “You are the righteous man, and I mean to raise you from this.”_

_Dean stopped now and stared into Cas’s face with hard eyes before crouching before him.  He leaned into Castiel’s wondering face and spat “No,” before snapping his fingers.  Suddenly, chains surrounded Castiel, ensnaring him upright.  The child disappeared, probably sent off to some other torturer._

_Castiel did not struggle.  He only repeated, “You are the righteous man,” as if that were the only thing he knew, as if that were the only explanation he could find within himself._

_Dean smirked before tearing the knife down Castiel’s wing, ripping it.  Castiel screamed again. “I don’t think so, angel.”_

_Weeks of torture crawled past before Dean finally asked.  “So, you got a name?” as he began organizing his chosen tools for the day.  It was the first question Dean had bothered asking Cas, and so the first time Cas had spoken since the first day.  In that time, Dean had relentlessly tortured Castiel, shredding his wings again and again, carving into Castiel’s grace, laughing all the while.  Dean had been particularly fascinated with inflicting pain onto Castiel’s wings, especially because they happened to be the most sensitive part of Castiel and seemed to cause the most fear.  “If you don’t want to answer,” said Dean innocently, though eyeing Castiel’s wings as though they were meat, “that’s fine by me.  I do enjoy getting my answers the hard way.”_

_Castiel shuddered against the chains.  He had learned in these days to flinch when Dean looked at him that way.  “My name is Castiel,” he said immediately, voice only quavering a little.  “I’m an angel of the Lord.”_

_Dean does not remember ripping through Castiel that day or any day.  He does not remember when Castiel finally wore him down with his patience and a love that could not be worn down, a love the likes of which Dean Winchester had not seen since he entered hell.  He does not remember unchaining Castiel and putting down his knife, or being grabbed by the shoulder and pulled away.  He does not remember the flight, or the way Cas cradled Dean’s soul in his tortured grace all the way to the light of earth._

_Dean does not remember these things because Castiel made him forget._

Dean only remembers pain as he found himself with Castiel, now in flesh and a rumpled coat, hovering over him with his hands on Dean’s mouth and ribs, clearing the blood and healing the worst of the wounds.  Dean pulled wildly at the cuffs, not understanding what was happening to him or who was standing above him, believing himself to be once again on the rack in his disorientation. 

“NO!” he screamed into Cas’s palm as he jerked blindly under Castiel’s hands, flinching away from them.  “No! N-n…”  Something broke inside of Cas when he found that this was Dean’s reaction to him after what he’d done to him in that alley.  He pulled his hands away quickly.

“Dean.  Dean!” said Castiel firmly. “I’m not going to hurt you, Dean, not now.”

Dean stopped struggling and fixed his hazy eyes onto Castiel’s, seeing him now clearly.  He was breathing heavily, still half-wounded from a healing job left unfinished, and again let his head fall to rest on the pillow.  A few warm tears slipped from the corners of his eyes.

“Cas…” he began quietly.  “Take one of these things off,” he said as he pulled weakly with his left hand.  Then he whispered.  “Please… I can’t- it’s just like it was when I was…”  He swallowed and spoke again.  “I know I deserve whatever punishment you deal out to me.”  Dean laughed sickly.  “But you’re a real bastard, you know that?  Using that little detail, with the cuffs, to send me straight back to hell…”  Dean seemed to shrink at his own words.  He quieted again.  “Please Cas.  Take one off… just one, please… I can’t do that again.”

Panic flashed through Cas’s eyes at this.  “Dean, I never meant to…” He paused as Dean stared at him with eyes that betrayed a hollow soul.   He pointed towards the cuff and twitched his hand, causing it to loosen and fall away.  Dean immediately pulled his hand in to his chest, resting it over his heart, checking for its presence.  Both his wrists were bleeding now

“Making you remember hell was never my intention,” Cas said softly, remorse in his voice.  He unlatched the other cuff now, too, and helped Dean sit up.

Dean winced at the motion and looked quizzically back at Cas.  “Aren’t you worried I’m going to go traipsing away to say yes to Michael?” 

Cas thought about this for a moment.  “I am, which is why I am going to put them back on you after I have finished healing your more desperate injuries.”  Cas paused and gingerly picked up Dean’s wrists, pouring healing grace into them with a soft glow.  “Despite your intentions towards Michael, it appears that you have suffered too much at my hand, whether I intended it or not.”

The two sat in silence for a long while, Dean feeling as Cas worked his way through his body with tendrils of grace; gentle, healing.  Neither spoke for fear of provoking the anger of the other.  Dean didn’t want to say yes to Michael.  He had to, just like Cas had to stop him.  They were two forces, both justified in their causes, and both very guilty of betrayal. 

So they did what they could, here, now.  Dean sat and allowed Cas to make amends between them.  There would be bitterness on both sides, yes, but here an understanding had been made.  Cas did eventually have to cuff one of Dean’s hands back to the bed, just one, and the relief in Dean’s eyes almost paralleled his other torn emotions at the whole situation. 

It was not many hours from then that Castiel blew himself and five angels away using a sigil that Dean (carefully, hands shaking) had carved into his chest with a box cutter.

Dean lay in bed, unsleeping, the next night, half drunk and too empty to move.  Cas was gone, probably dead.  This was his fault.  If he hadn’t…. Dean bunched the sheets in his fists and released them, exhaling shallowly.  Dean stared into the ceiling, trying to see through it, trying to block out any thoughts, but ended up wondering if maybe he could see Cas up there if he tried hard enough.

The next night, Dean did sleep, but fitfully.  He kept dreaming of an empty trench coat covered in blood.  Dean tried again and again to rub out the blood, but suddenly his hands were box cutters, and the coat somehow bled more and the coat was ripped to shreds as Dean tried to put it back together.  Dean awoke from this nightmare in a cold sweat.

The next time Dean saw Castiel after that was in a dream.  Dean was situated peacefully on a fluffy bed in a room that had never existed.  It was Dean’s room.  In his dreams, Dean’s walls were covered with his most prized weapons and a pin-up poster he pulled out of one of John’s Playboy’s.  There was a minibar, too, full of pie slices and plenty of booze.  The bed was soft, unlike the scratchy motel blankets he was used to.  Dean, in this particular dream, was polishing his gun as Metallica played softly from an unknown source.

 “You didn’t say yes.”

Seeing Castiel in his dreams was not unusual for Dean.  In his dreams, Castiel would always appear, open and pliant beneath Dean’s hands as he took him in every way imaginable.  Dean knew these couldn’t be real.  Cas only ever visited Dean’s dreams if there was something relatively urgent happening.  Besides, this couldn’t be Cas.  Cas was gone. 

“You’re damn right I didn’t,” said Dean, the gun suddenly evaporating from his grasp.  “How could I after all you and Sam have done?”  At this he stood and sauntered up to Castiel, looking him up and down.  This version of him seemed physically tired, and yet a sort of energy radiated from him.  Dean hadn’t seen this version of Cas in a long time. 

Now Dean reached for Castiel’s tie, loosening it.  Cas squinted at Dean with confusion before his expression relaxed again, seeming to have remembered something long forgotten.  He allowed Dean to pull off his coat and throw it onto the floor before saying, “I was wrong about you, Dean.”

This was new.  Usually by this point,   one or both of them were groaning the other’s name on some surface, not having deep conversations about their feelings.  “Yeah, well, Cas, most people are.”  Dean shucked Cas’s suit jacket away before adding, “Including myself, sometimes.”  Dean put his hands around Cas’s waist and pulled him into a deep, hungry kiss.  For a moment, Cas stilled with surprise, but soon melted and became as pliant as he ever was, kissing back, licking into Dean’s mouth and moaning softly as Dean deftly tugged Cas’s belt from his pants, where an erection was forming. 

Dean palmed Cas through his pants, slowly massaging with his whole hand, surprised when he felt wetness already beginning to form.  He put his hands to more efficient use, pulling Cas’s shirt off as Cas grabbed hold of Dean’s still-clothed ass.  Dean led Cas to his bed, pushing him down onto it to pull away his dress pants. 

The sight of Cas there on his bed, lips wet, face flushed, and boxers tented instantly aroused Dean.  He willed his clothes away, sighing as some of the pressure subsided.  This was his dream, after all.  He found Castiel’s tie in his hand as a whim found him.

Suddenly, however, it was not Castiel naked on the bed, but him.  Cas crawled over Dean and began tying his wrists to a bedpost.  Dean began to breathe more heavily than he already was at this, both fear and anticipation in his eyes.  Castiel noticed this and stopped.  He stooped down and kissed Dean, gently this time.  “Do you trust me, Dean?”  he whispered against Dean’s flushed cheek.

 “I…” he swallowed thickly, the memory of hell threatening to overtake him. 

 Noting Dean’s apprehension, Cas said, “This is your dream, after all.  You can change it at any time.” 

 Dean tested the knots around his wrists with a tug and felt Castiel’s thick warmth on his belly.  He nodded.  “Yeah, Cas, I guess I do.”

 Cas smiled and kissed Dean again, roughly, biting down on his lower lip, then licking it soothingly, causing Dean’s breath to hitch.  “Good,” he said, voice gravelly.  Cas raised himself up and began kissing his way down Dean’s chest, stopping to nip and lick at one of his nipples until Dean whimpered and spread his legs apart further, begging for Cas to continue.  Cas smiled against Dean’s chest and began again kissing, reaching Dean’s navel before lifting up his head. 

 Dean groaned at the loss of contact.  Now Cas took both of Dean’s legs in his hands and spread them apart slowly, opening Dean up.  Cas licked a thin line up Dean’s shaft, quickly pulling away.  Dean gasped and began faintly thrusting his hips in a futile attempt for more.  Cas blew a stream of air onto the wet spot and Dean outright moaned.

 “Almost,” Cas said quietly, though Dean was too lost in a haze of sensation to hear him.  Cas was quite hard himself.

Cas turned his head and kissed Dean’s thigh, sucking hard, biting now and again, and licking tantalizingly.  Dean was achingly hard and began to leak warm drops onto his own belly.  Dean began babbling Cas’s name with “please” and “more” as he thrusted his hips, desperately needing friction. 

Cas, hearing Dean’s pleas, climbed on top of Dean, trapping their erections between them, and began rocking, kissing and gasping into Dean’s mouth as the pleasure built within them.  Dean came with Cas’s name on his lips, sending Cas over the edge with him.

The tie disappeared from Dean’s wrists as they lay there, panting and sated.  The mess disappeared as well, leaving only them, naked and warm on Dean’s bed.  When Dean came back to reality, he mumbled, “S’shame you won’t remember this in th’ mornin’…”

Cas squinted faintly and turned his head to look at Dean.  “What do you mean?”

Dean chuckled faintly.  “You’re just a dream.  None of this was real to you.”

“That’s not true,” said Cas conversationally.  “This is all me.”  Dean froze beside him.  Cas trapped his mouth in another kiss to reassure him. 

Dean welcomed Castiel’s mouth on his and kissed him lazily.  When their mouths parted, Dean said commandingly, “Show me.”

 Cas gazed back at him through eyes half-lidded.  “Show you what?”

“Your wings.  Show me your wings, Cas.”  Dean held his breath after this, expecting Cas to protest.

Cas hesitated before rolling over to perch on the edge of the bed, his back to Dean.  “Promise me you will keep your eyes shut until I tell you to open them.”

Dean blinked once.  Twice.  That was easy.  “Uh, yeah.  Yeah, okay.”  Dean shifted to his side so he wouldn’t be tempted to look and squeezed his eyes closed.  For good measure, he tossed his arm over his eyes.

Cas looked back over his shoulder, and satisfied that Dean’s eyes were well shielded, he began humming Enochian low in his throat.  His wings began slowly manifesting, first as a faint glow, then as a collection of particles being drawn together in a soft outline.  The light intensified until a sudden blinding flash filled the space.  When it faded, a set of huge burnt-black wings hovered over the bed.  “You may open your eyes, Dean.”

Dean did so as he slowly lowered his arm from his eyes and peeked around.  His eyes widened at the sight.  Cas sat there, stiff, awaiting Dean’s judgment and resolutely not looking back at Dean, suddenly shy.  Or perhaps afraid.  Dean couldn’t tell as he marveled at each sleek, seared-at-the-end feather as they wobbled slowly in a non-existent breeze. 

Cas shivered as Dean stroked a longer feather gently with his forefinger.  “Come here,” Dean instructed as he guided an unresisting Cas by the waist and laid him flat on his stomach on the bed before straddling him across his lower back.  He worked his fingers into Cas’s taut muscles, ignoring the stuff wings to his sides.  He massaged for a minute or two before Cas sighed contentedly, wings drooping off the sides of the bed in relaxation.  Dean had to smirk a little.

 Now he worked his way to the base of the wings, being more careful here.  He soon heard a disgruntled and muffled “Harder, Dean.  You can’t break them,” from below him and began truly working at the flesh there, using one hand for each wing.

 Pushing and kneading his way up the wings, Dean massaged through bunches of feathers, drawing low moans from Cas, deeper and louder the closer he got to the arches.  Dean noticed the change and slipped his fingers underneath the feathers just below the top of the arch of each wing.  Cas bucked backwards, gasping, knocking Dean off balance for a moment.  A chuckle emanated from Dean as he leaned over Cas, to press warm kisses to the back of his neck.  “You like this, huh, feathers?”  Cas only moaned in response.  Dean slid his hand the wrong way back down to the base of the feathers and began again his massaging.  “Get on your hands and knees, Cas.  I’m gonna make this good for you…” 

 Cas obliged, and Dean situated himself behind him.  Dean grabbed hold of Cas’s length and began stroking in time with his slow massage of one wing.  “Dean…” Cas moaned, hips grinding back into Dean’s new erection with each stroke.  Now Dean tightened his grip and twisted with one hand and used the other to rub up and down Cas’s wing.  Cas shuddered and quickened his pace in counter to Dean’s.  Both men groaned.

Suddenly Dean bit down onto Cas’s shoulder, and Cas could not contain himself any longer, coming into Dean’s hand.  Dean finished himself off with a few quick strokes of his hand, slick with Cas’s come, and collapsed on top of him. 

After a few moments, Cas rolled himself and Dean over, encasing their bodies with his wings.  A few stray feathers floated down around them.  Dean might have fallen asleep had he not already been dreaming.

“So…” he began, resting his head on Cas’s chest.  “This is really you?”  He thought for a moment.  “This is _us_?”  Dean felt Cas press his lips against Dean’s head.

“I won’t forget this.” 

With that Dean awoke, wet and blushing.

The next time Dean saw Cas in the waking world, Cas winked at him and tugged on his tie, and Dean had no doubts from then on.


End file.
